


On Men

by NortheasternWind



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Sparring, ornstein and nk are gay as hell for each other but it's irrelevant for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-14
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-17 20:40:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18106070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NortheasternWind/pseuds/NortheasternWind
Summary: Captain Ornstein is unmatched in the art of slaying dragons, but rather less so in the art of slaying men. The Four Knights attempt to teach Ornstein the art of defending himself against enemies more his size, with questionable success.





	On Men

Three of the Four Knights have decided that Ornstein may be an illustrious dragonslayer, but his skill as a duelist leaves much to be desired. He wishes he could say that he does not see the need to rectify this, but that is entirely untrue: if he intends to win this war then someday the dragons will be gone, and his enemies will cease to present such large targets.

As such, the four of them are gathered in a courtyard, training weapons in hand. Gough sits on the ground nearby while Artorias perches upon the lip of a flowerbed, wrapped greatsword dangling idly by his side, helmet in his lap. Despite the fact that he is only sparring Ornstein himself is clad in full armor, as he will need every advantage he can get:

Of the four of them Ciaran is the greatest slayer of men. She darts around Ornstein effortlessly, slipping in under his guard and striking at her leisure, and no matter how he tries Ornstein cannot seem to stop her.

“Dead again,” she says blankly, blade hooked around his throat. “You are in direr need than I’d assumed, Captain.”

Ornstein smoulders— but ruthlessly smothers his enmity. Ciaran is right. He must learn, and it does him no good to deny it.

“It speaks well of you,” Artorias says, forcing Ornstein to quash another flair of irritation at him. “You have thus far found no need for the slaying of men.”

Ciaran barks out a laugh. “Am I being criticized?”

“Not at all. I mean only that there is honor in attaining such skill without having honed it upon your own kind.”

“I thank you,” Ornstein says, and truly at that. “But I have no need of that honor.”

(And neither, he thinks, does Artorias. The Wolf Knight has slain people before, obviously, but though Ornstein knows that such things are sometimes necessary the thought of Artorias as a killer seems utterly alien. Artorias treasures every life, even the wretched and insignificant ones— and even to his own detriment.)

“Again.”

Ciaran bows. “Captain.”

Ornstein knows that with continued practice he can only improve, and not become any worse. But it is hard to remember when Ciaran bests him even faster this time, sidestepping his thrust and setting her blade at his throat as easily as though he were a common civilian, and not an experienced knight of Gwyn.

“Your last attempt was better,” she says unnecessarily.

“You are not using your range to its full effect,” Artorias says. “When a dragon is within reach of your spear he is already too close for you to think of defense, but a man at spearpoint is entirely at your mercy.”

“Most men,” Gough corrects with amusement. Artorias gives a faint smile.

“Most men,” he amends. “In any case, you must use your spear to keep your enemies within your reach, and yourself out of theirs.”

“That’s not good enough,” Ciaran argues. “What will he do if a man stands in front of his face? Panic? Cry?”

“He is much too composed to do either of those things,” Gough says.

“Ciaran is right,” Ornstein interrupts before they can argue any further. “Whether from a distance or up close, I must be ready. Again. I will do better this time.”

He does not. Ornstein swings his lance in a wide arc, keeping Ciaran away longer, but this time when she ducks in as he recovers she tucks her knife into the joint of his armor, and his breastplate falls away as though it were held to his body by a mere thread.

Artorias covers his mouth with a hand, poorly hiding a laugh, and Gough shakes his head.

“Ciaran...”

“His armor will not always protect him.”

“You are a cruel teacher,” Artorias says. “Here— I shall spar with you instead, Captain.”

“Your reach is as long as mine,” Ornstein points out. “And as she is the best trained in dueling, I would do better to learn from her.”

“It does you no good to throw yourself into the ocean before you have learned to swim in the shallows,” Gough points out.

“I believe he can handle it,” Ciaran says.

“We are not disputing that, but—”

“Enough.”

A new voice interrupts; Ornstein straightens unthinkingly as Artorias and Gough start, before sinking into low bows as best they can while seated. Ciaran kneels entirely.

“My lord,” Ornstein greets, turning to face the newcomer and kneeling stiffly.

“Rise,” Gwynfor, Prince of Sunlight commands, and the four knights obey. Suddenly Ornstein is terribly conscious of how ridiculous he must look, with his chestplate at his feet and the rest of his armor on his body, and as he rises he lifts his helmet from his face as though it were the natural thing to do.

“Have you need of us?” he asks.

But the prince shakes his head. “On the contrary; I am here to rescue you from your friends. Your concern for Sir Ornstein speaks well of you,” he says, addressing the others, “but he will learn very little if your instruction continues unchanged. You are only humiliating him, and teaching him nothing.”

Artorias meets Ornstein’s eyes. “I am sorry, Captain.”

Ornstein feels another rush of irritation, but before he can decide what to do with it the Prince speaks again: “Attend to your other duties; I will teach Sir Ornstein myself.”

“My lord,” the other three chorus, and with a few final glances at Ornstein depart, Artorias on Gough’s shoulders and Ciaran into the shadows.

“We will find you later,” she promises before vanishing, leaving him alone with Prince Gwynfor.

Again. This is hardly the first time they have been alone together, with Ornstein the sole focus of the Prince’s attention, but… no matter how many times it happens, the Prince’s presence— his gaze, his voice— never seem any less intense than the first. Even now, a full-fledged knight with Lord Gwyn’s confidence and trust, Ornstein cannot help but feel as a new student under an exacting mentor’s scrutiny, and the sensation is exacerbated by Gwynfor’s continued silence.

Gods and giants have excellent hearing, and Gough’s footsteps are quite faint before the Prince speaks again.

“Teaching is a skill like any other,” he says finally, wandering idly to the weapons laying against the nearby wall and selecting a wooden spear. “One that must be taught, studied, and learned. Do not hold their inexperience against them.”

“Yes, my lord,” Ornstein says at once. They are only worried, he knows, that someday their friend will be felled from behind by one lesser than he, and seek to protect him. There is no point in being upset with them.

The Prince smiles. “Communication is also a skill. They will never see your frustration and adjust to it if you insist on hiding it from them.”

Ornstein starts, blinking in surprise and cursing his decision to remove his helmet. _Adjust to it_. But Ornstein has always been meticulous, rigid, _strict_ , and it is he who must learn to adjust, not they who have already known how and done so all their lives—

“There you go again. Come, sir Ornstein: speak freely.”

He blinks again. It takes him a moment to answer, for Ornstein’s regard for the eldest prince is not easy to overcome— but it is because of that regard that he can do nothing but obey:

“Patience is the mark of a disciplined leader, my lord.”

“So it is,” the Prince agrees. “But where the Silver Knights perhaps need your example, your three compatriots are also your friends. If you cannot trust them with your anger and frustrations then you must behave accordingly, and not allow them to believe otherwise.”

Ornstein remains silent, and this time the Prince does not pry. He does trust his friends. Truly. But to stand unmoved is simply his nature, and to employ it by remaining silent rather than forcing others to bend to his vision seems the kinder option.

“You are too proud to change right away,” the Prince notes after a few moments.

Ornstein looks up sharply. He is indeed proud, and knows it, but to hear it from the Prince stings in a place he had not thought needed defending.

“I have tried to take the advice of others to heart, and not to argue unless strictly necessary,” he says before he can stop himself. “Proud I may be, but not to the point of foolishness.”

“There is more to discarding arrogance than simply accepting the word of others,” the Prince says. “It is also trusting others with your weakness.”

“That is my burden, and not theirs.”

“It could be theirs if you let it,” the Prince says. “None of you have ever held grudges, and so why should you fear their temper— or your own?”

“I know myself.”

The Prince shakes his head. “You are better than you think you are, Sir Ornstein— you can afford the risk, and I pray you do so before you bring yourself to harm.

“But that is a lesson for another day!” He brandishes his false lance. “Today I shall teach you the art of slaying men, as I have taught you the art of slaying dragons. Unlike your compatriots, I already know how you learn best.”

It is too late to recover his armor, so Ornstein kicks it away and falls into position instead, heart pounding. Their conversation has thrown him oddly off-balance: now he must scramble to recover. “I will try not to disappoint you, my lord.”

“You won’t,” the Prince assures him, and then strikes.

**Author's Note:**

> Before I can write about the sads I must write about the happies, and the everydays.
> 
> Do I want to write in Ye Olde English? NO NOT REALLY


End file.
